Drabbles: Long and Short
by FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: A growing collection of short stories involving Charon and the FLW. Some are snippets, some are ideas that never made it into stories and other are just drabbles. Enjoy them as they come. Feel free to add ideas in the comments.
1. Dance

**Dance**

"Come on! Dance with me you grump!"

He scoffed, but a grin followed soon after as she balled up her fists and wiggled to the music that blasted like a bomb from downstairs. While the whores fraternized with their protector, Dukov, she was opt to not care as the moans cut through the music. Her poor try at dancing was enjoyable to watch but he would not join her. The very idea of himself imitating her wiggling hips and silly steps would have made the most lonesome drifter chuckle. He was not, in any sense of the word, a prime dance partner nor would he attempt it.

"No one can see you but me," she smiled, twirling half-drunken-like and giggling, "and really, what have you got to lose?!"

"It's more entertaining watching you."

"Grump," and then she was off shaking her hips and shoulders in tight circle like the worlds worst dancer, mouthing the words to 'Sunning' with not shred of shame. If anyone could make him want to dance, just the slightest, it'd be her, but there wasn't enough alcohol to get him up to join her, at least not on the second floor. So he watched as the rum level grew low in his bottle - each sip letting his eyes linger on her longer than they should have.

By the time Three Dog started hooting and hollering, the bottle in his hand was dry and she had a dim sheen of sweat on her neck and forehead. One of those slow songs started by The Ink Spots and she started to sway with her eyes half closed; a content smile on her lips. A fire had started where the alcohol left a flame as her movement brought attention to the curve of her stomach and hip.

"Today wasn't so bad, huh?"

He nodded sluggishly. His eyes were trained on her hand as it went to swipe cooling sweat from her neck, but as with every heated look he let fall on her, she was oblivious. Just a young woman; naive with him around to wade out the scum that would have no doubt bothered her had she ever been alone.

"We've even got a bed to crash on. What more could we need?"

For once he almost said what he wanted - the words were right on the tip of his tongue, even his lips were parted, but thankfully he swallow them and grunted in agreeance. There was and never would be a time to say as he truly thought, even if she'd ordered it of him that first five minutes she held his contract. They had a good thing going, and he planned on keeping those good times rolling until she didn't want his company anymore. These past months with her had been better than the past forty years, maybe even longer - that is, if you could remember from that long ago. Repetition over the years had a way of slipping away, leaving holes in his memory. Sometimes decades at a time.

"Guess the food sorta sucks, but," she gave a huff of laughter, "can't have everything."

"At least you're learning," he muttered, grappling around his side for another half-full bottle of whiskey. She aimed a sly smile at him before kicking her feet in the air to the slow music - a complete opposite to the delicate melody. She really was terrible, but while on another that anarchy would bite at his nerves, it only made her more endearing.

"Always quick with a witty retort," she sing-songed, hands behind her back and feet now shuffling.

He wasn't sure how she was so...energetic, even after the long hike they'd taken from the DC outskirts to the middle of the damn ruins in one day. Mutant hordes aside, she'd been on those legs all day and still she danced on them as though she were...bored; pent-up. Even with his ghoulish stamina, she was impressive against him.

"Sure you don't wanna dance with me, might make you forget about the the dingbats downstairs."

Two fresh swigs into the whiskey and suddenly, the idea didn't sound so foolish. She was eyeing him around her shoulder, marching in a wide circle and grinning with white teeth and pink lips. One more deep chug and he stood on his feet, feeling his own weight suddenly bear down on him. His knees felt rubbery and a deep burn in his chest made him feel like panting, but for some reason...he shuffled forward to her makeshift dance floor; head on his shoulders and legs feeling quite useless. Her steady gaze made him itch for the reclusion of a cigarette. The pack a day was a habit he'd started to avoid looking back at her during those long moments where she saw no problem fixing him with long, silent gazes.

As soon as he was within arm's width of her, she grappled his hands in her own and tugged him - all 300 pounds - into her. The friction of her chest against his abdomen made a rash of heat flood under his leather. God, she was going to kill him someday and maybe not by her fallout either, at least not the bullet variety.

"Oops," she giggled, fucking giggled, while pulling his hands into a strange position - one pushed around at her back and left there just on the curve right above her rear. He wondered why it'd taken this long for him to regret standing up in the first place. This was a terrible idea.

"So...we used to have dances in the Vault, everyone would get paired up randomly and slow dance to Dean Martin...it was the uh, only record we had. Well that and Perry Como but no one liked that one."

As she spoke his eyes shifted around her, on their locked fingers - her bare smooth ones and his patched ones that poked through his fingerless leather gloves - and finally, without ease, he looked down at her to see her smiling up at him, a soft tint over her cheeks. Blushing, if he remembered right. She was blushing.

"We pretty much just did circles," and as Ella Fitzgerald started singing 'Into Each Life...' she tugged him with her, pulling him along on fickle feet. It was hard to watch each of his steps with her body between them - it happened more than once that his eyes drifted to her...and the open gash in the collar of her shirt.

By the end of the song he didn't need to look down, and instead he managed a slight smile as she hummed off-key and laughed, but not at him. She seemed to...enjoy this. It wasn't so hard to see why she enjoyed doing this, he supposed.

"You're a lot better than the guys in the Vault..." she near-whispered, against his chest.

"It's easier than I thought," he grumbled, unwilling to let it show how much he, too, enjoyed her compliment and this - this closeness...it almost felt intimate.

"Hey Charon," she asked lowly.

He mumbled in acknowledgment, watching his feet again to avoid those intense eyes of hers.

"I'm sorry I didn't defend you earlier, you know when Dukov said-"

"Don't worry," he snapped, then pushed his lips into a thin line - realizing how callus he'd sounded.

"Yea but," she paused as if expecting him to cut her off again, he didn't, too busy regretting his earlier words. There was always the fact that he had grown increasingly enraptured by the way her shirt slid under his hand at her back. He could feel the taut skin underneath and...he should have been at least mildly embarrassed of the stirring sensation below his belt.

"It's important that you know I never once thought that way about you...maybe when I first saw Gob I was a little...shocked. But honestly I just thought he looked like one of those monsters from Grognak, and the monsters were sorta' my favorite." As she spoke she sounded more and more sheepish, but he'd found over time that she tended to get this way when she was admitting truths. "Plus, you smell a lot better than Dukov," at that she chuckled, looking up at him under admiring eyes. He couldn't help but try at a smile.

"I'll take that to heart, kid," he said, feeling her close the distance and lay her head on his chest, moving slowly and perfectly with his steps as the songs poured out from down below.

"In fact, I'd say you smell...kinda good..." her hand on his shoulder slipped down and eased around his back while her hand in his released to join her other; hugging him lightly. For that moment he couldn't feel his heartbeat, just her arms around him, hands latched snuggling behind him. The top hairs on her head wafted as he breathed a sluggish exhale, looking down at the slightly messy crop of hair.

"Kinda like I figured a cowboy would smell like."


	2. Space

**Space**

Charon finds her in the captains room with the lights turned low and her body cradled in the alien bed. The lights pulse a soft yellow that makes her exposed arms look diseased when married with the bruises up and down her flesh.

She is a small woman, but when he leans against the door frame and watches her in the small alien bed, built much like a cocoon, it is even more apparent.

It looks like she took a wrench to the command controls. There is the vibrant light of exposed mechanics, mysterious mechanics, under torn white metal. A short spark ignites deep in the display. There must have been a part of her terrified at the idea of the bed engulfing her while she slept to risk electrocuting herself like that.

He is about to leave when she twists at the waist, her shoulders hitting the bed and her head rolling towards him. The torn blood-soaked linen around her head is gone and he sees the shaved portion curving on the right side of her scalp and the bare patch where they'd removed an eyebrow. The start of red, beaten skin fused with alien glue is only partially visible. She bears the same needle holes at her eyes that he does but his scar is larger by far. It is only her luck that her skin is so fair and smooth that her wounds appear more vividly than his own upon his patchwork hide.

He looks away from her body to her face after too long.

Her eyes - bloodshot, crusted with red around her lashes - terrifies him.

"Hey," she whispers. It does not escape him that she finally sounds scared. After everything her lower lip is finally trembling.

Instead of speaking, worried she might note the same emotion - new emotion he reminds himself - he merely nods. She does not need to hear him expressing his concern. It would do no good, only intensify her fear.

"How is Sally?" she asks.

"How are you?" he counters without thought, taking solace only in how emotionless he sounds. The fact that she would ask about the little girl's well being, as nothing can phase the child, tells him she is merely trying to deflect whatever she sees in his own eyes. Maybe she notes the concern. There is no distracting him when she looks as she does however.

Those eyes. They blink and he almost sees blood seep out like tears at their corners.

"Feel like my brain's been fucked with needles, same as you."

No, not same as him.

They gave something to her. They took something from him.

A vivid flash of memory grips him - of waking up, strapped to a standing table, his eyes sloshing in his eyes until his vision finally crisps upon a tray of wire worms swimming in blood and pink matter. He was terrified, floating in a wave of fear he'd never known. They'd ripped his programming from his skull and slapped in on a table for study, leaving him to free himself when the chaos started - to stare at his own torment...

They took something out of him, and he is worse because of it. He has to try to remain the same - emotionless. She knows more now, sees things he can't and senses...something. He feels he cannot hide it from her for much longer, so he concedes and walks forward.

Her chest goes still, holding her breath as he approaches and it takes a certain degree of determination to not stop at her raw body language. No doubt she will feel the psychological effects of her trauma for a long while and the fact that he might trigger them, unintentionally shouldn't offend him.

He stops a foot away, towering over her. A small table, one he sits down on with no simplicity, offers a way for him to seem less a threat.

He is still too tall, so he waits as she scoots up against the tiny bed, further away and sitting as high as possible. There she stares at him, fingers itching along her neck - a signal of how uncomfortable she is.

After her hand falls to her lap he speaks, "I am no longer in your service."

Her expression changes little, only her eyes move and eventually they look away at the blank wall to his right. Do not be offended, he reminds himself when she hugs her middle, shrinking further away.

"Was it some sort of computer chip?" her question is so tiny he barely hears it and when he does discern it it takes him a moment to understand. She knows they took something from him. How? He doesn't ask, only shakes his head and says, "Wires. Something artificial and organic."

Even though nothing changes, on her face or her posture, he knows she is thinking deeply about what he just said. He can feel it. Something in the air. It is a new, almost sore sensation. When her eyes reach over to him his gut rolls softly. Born again, is how he would describe this new state of awareness.

"Are you going to kill me?"

It is the last thing he would expect her to say, and offense doesn't begin to describe the emotion that follows her silence or the pained expression on her face. He rises, anger flaring like molten lead in his lungs; leaking up his neck to his face where pounding blood vessels in his eyes tint his vision half-red. For a second his fingers crack into a fist at his thigh.

He sees beads of sweat form on her face, bloodshot eyes leaking globs of sticky pink liquid. It was her that had tried to free him in the beginning. Later it was her that nervously laughed off his annoyance when she bandaged his wounds - wounds he took for her. Or more privately it was her that would sneak a skinny arm around his waist in the night, after a nightmare.

Their relationship was not one-sided though. It was him that watched her back in tunnels, in the open and in the dark. It was him that listened but rarely talked back. It was him that held her until she fell asleep the night of her fathers death. In the end though it was him with a balled up fist, looming instead of wondering why she could think he would mean her any harm, regardless of his contracts current state. He would never harm her now. No one could take the piece of paper hidden underground, force his hand. No one, not even him, would ever hurt her now.

"No," he says with finality, sitting down again. The table screams under his abrupt weight and he sees the sound give her goosebumps. He continues, looking down at his hands upon his knees, "I'm going to stay," a deep, nasally exhale, "...whether you want me or not."

He watches her slowly smile. It is a delicate, uneasy smile as if she expects him to lunge at her any moment, but she gives it to him anyways and he feels better because of it.

"Good," is all she says before sliding off the bed, getting up on weak legs and stepping like a wounded animal towards him. It is then she holds her hand out to him, shaking between them. The beds of her nails are as raw as her eyelids, showing a failed attempt to claw her way out of a room or maybe a series of tight restraints. They have suffered, but he does not feel it has been in vain, and with a lump in his throat that has never been there before, he grasps her frail hand in his own and shakes.

"Good," he repeats, for the first time feeling a creep of heat touch him between the ribs, and loving it.


	3. The Motorcycle

**The Motorcycle**

She kicks the motorcycle over, it's kickstand just a long rusted stick that crumbles as the hunk of junk falls into the hard packed sand. Stranded with little provisions and water she has taken to pouting much like a child around the heaps of car engines, blowers, exhaust pipes, scrap metal and two sun scorched cars. He's never seen her do this before; complain so adamantly that her cheeks look sunburnt. It's not something he's had time to familiarize himself with. To avoid. To palm with caution. He is out of his element, as she so often puts him.

She lights a cigarette and he stands with his gun pointing to the dirt she's kicking with her boots. Plooms of it glowing yellow in the sun at their feet. Unable and unwilling to speak though as he is, she demands answers at increasing volumes, waving the burning ebb of her smoke around in erratic circles and arches.

Often than not he doesn't say much. She knows this. Even if he did there would be little, he knows, that could calm her down. He looks away when she turns up to meet his stare after falling broodingly silent, eyes dark despite the low burning ball in the sky. Now seems like the time to scout the area, if anything it's to avoid feeling useless while she fumes.

Not many things can make him tuck his tail and run. But she can and does.

As it was when he'd first scanned the perimeter though, there is nothing to shoot or chase, nothing to use as an excuse so he may take himself further from her. It should shame him that he's uncomfortable around a pissy teenager, but not many people have spent as much time around this girl as he has. Her rare moments of anger and or sadness make up for all the times the emotions seem unable to affect her. It is terrifying to behold her negative emotions as they are conglomerates of other issues she ignores more often than not.

It is dark when he finally decides to approach her.

The evening was spent perched in a natural nest above four joined rocks emerging from within the earth, eyeing the horizon, wishing for an unfortunate enemy to dot within the heat lines. Nothing came and with the last of the purple in the sky he eases to her side once more, seeing parts of her moving behind the upturned carcass of the motorcycle. She's set up an electric lantern, powered by a humming generator that she's drug outside some time ago he notices.

Even past the tubes and scuffed parts of the machine he sees her naked arms and naked stomach, shiny against the light as she grumbles, making a motion with her arm that tells his brain she's trying to either screw or unscrew some bolt she has no way of knowing it's purpose. An open copy of Dean's Electronics sits beside her, a sad sight when he knows she's already read it four times before. The issue will not help her with the task at hand.

For once he desires to talk, but the chances of her anger flaring again makes him think better of it. Besides, it is a better use of his time to stand watch while she fails at her task. If the motorcycles or the cars could have been fixed people would have done so by now and the world would be different. Despite knowing this a part of him entertains how easy it has been for her to change so much already, and a decayed motorcycle coming to life wouldn't touch the other tasks she's accomplished so far.

Against his will an image of her straddling the machine, nipples poking against a clean grey shirt and vibrating metal touching pink panties. She points a finger at him and coos 'bang bang'.

His gut writhes.

"Charon, that you?" she says low when his boots crunch over a pile of rust she's scraped off. Who else would it be, he thinks, and why would she be calm if the potential for him being someone else was even an option?

She doesn't look up when he steps closer, peering down, her face obscured under her uncut hair. He avoids looking down the deep slope of her shirt where naked breasts are plainly visible. Instead he watches the tendons in her hands pull up and sink back beneath flesh painted blue by the light, trying to no avail on unscrewing a nut. She recognizes the sound of his approach he realizes, and as he angles his head to catch the sight of her face, she's smirking. Teasing him.

He feels relief and annoyance.

Her teasing is mostly lost on him, but she does it regardless, sometimes with too much subtlety that makes him act foolishly before she explains herself. It is no secret she enjoys it, so he allows it, mostly ignoring it. But she tilts her head up, the smirk growing into a grin that makes her cheeks look full and healthy and he is won over. For the moment he has enjoyed her little tease and turns away before she can see the side of his lip twitch.

She sings 'White Christmas' as he goes about his tasks, trying and failing to ignore her.

That night he makes a small fire between the two cars as she works and curses. He watches her. Her back is to him and hunched forth so the bare strip of flesh above her rear breaks his concentration. It catches his eyes more than it should while he spears spongy molerat meat on sharpened pieces of metal rod. The sour scent of near-rotten meat floods his senses and it is enough to dull whatever is stirring in his gut.

His mind rolls in the dark, touched raw and seedy by the flames in the fire. The meat cooks as he twists it around in the blaze. It is a mindless task, and even though his eyes dart around the pitch black shrouding them, even while his ears strain to listen for distant gunshots, rocks kicked and doped sniffles, he thinks.

He ignores her itching at a bare hip out the side of his vision and shifts the soles of his boots into the sand, feeling a sensation deep in his muscles. The feeling starts off dull, but grows as his thoughts drift past the normal threshold. Where his veins touch the bare air, or the inside of his leather, the sensation is greater - like bubbles of heat in his blood. It happens when he thinks about her, about her when she bathes, palms a breast when she's sweaty or bends down to pick up some piece of junk from the desolate ground.

It is a train of thought he's only indulged in once before, giving himself the first phantom erection later that same day that he'd had in years. In some portion of his brain he worries of the consequences later in the night, while they lay side by side, but the thought vanishes when she gives a loud grumble, tossing herself back on the ground. It is her childish admission of defeat. He has seen it many times.

"All these parts. I need a paper and pencil to mark down what goes where….should have done that from the start." That means she has no idea what she's doing he notes with a mild wave of amusement.

Her head rolls back in the white dirt, mashing her hair into the sand to look at him from the opposite spectrum he's staring at her in. Her nipple has escaped the too large and too loose confines of the workers tank - an action he assumes came from her falling backwards without thinking. His head swims a moment, then his mind tells him that she knows she is exposed. The cool night air is blowing in her hair and in turn she must feel it on the puckered flesh drawing his eye.

Her eyes close and she sighs. Tired he realizes, finding an excuse to look away from her now that he can force her to eat something finally. A reason to break the one-sided tension.

"You should eat," he mentions, as if it was just an afterthought. The key to getting her to do as she needs to is to pretend he does not care either way. As he expects she nods in the dirt and rolls over, twisting the thin garment around her ribs, fully exposing one soft looking breast. It is insulting he thinks, that she cares so little about exposing herself to him, as if he is not a man to her. It's something she's never said to him or anyone else, but it is evident in the way she acts when it is just the two of them. She would not dare show a bare shoulder in a place like Megaton let alone a pale, bouncing breast.

On hands and knees she crawls to him, proving his point when she saddles up to him and rights her shirt without an ounce of shame. It bothers him, but he tells himself it doesn't as they eat together in silence.

"Did you ever pick up anything about them in your years?" she asks after washing down the sour taste of the meat with a flat, warm cola. When he just stares back at her she points.

His eyes turn to the motorcycle - the parts she'd scrubbed of rust glisten blue and white. He does, but he is not obliged to inform her of that, so he shakes his head in the negative. She sighs something that sounds like 'oh, well' before leaning against his shoulder, finishing her drink with the tilt of her head on his bicep.

She is warm, like the fire on his front and nothing like the cold at his back and empty side. One finger twitches on his knee, threatening to touch her while she's distracted, but instead he smudges dirt from the palm of his glove, waiting for her to either speak or move. She does neither for so long he finally cranes his neck, eyes rolling down until they ache. He finds her eyes closed and the side of a mouth parted in sleep. He doesn't dare move for what he knows is hours later, keeping his watch where he is. There has never been a moment in his life where he has not heard an enemy approaching first from the darkness and her light breathing doesn't once overpower his vigilance.

Only when the third hour approaches does he shift ever so slowly, catching her head against his chest as it rolls back in her sleep. The last time she slept had been 56 hours ago. She is dead weight in his arms as he lifts her against him. Only a single sound, more a wheezing breath than anything, escapes her mouth as she settles in his grip. A part of him doesn't like how deep she can sleep - it is a hindrance to her survival and has made him question how far she had gotten without a second pair of eyes on her back, but her sleep comes so rare now. She deserves to sleep when she can.

Her body molds to the bed roll with a sigh that wracks her whole body and he does not have the proper willpower to turn away when she kicks a leg and her young breasts bounce under thin cotton. She settles with fingers curling around nothing and breathes out her content.

His employer deserves more than a good sleep, at least one without him leering.

Staring back from her to the motorcycle he feels that itch in his blood again, and before too long he's sitting in front of the junk pile, staring at the caked-in cylinders, the matted brakes, a completely rotted through exhaust pipe. Most of it is held together with rust and nothing more, but when he grabs the frame and gives it a careful shake, the sizzle of long contained nuclear slug echoes through the tank.

It has fuel, but that isn't the issue he knows.

Briefly he sits there and stares at it, realizing more than once it's not worth the time, but time is something he has plenty of and it could only be spent one of two ways - sitting idly in the darkness, waiting for a fight, or potentially giving her something no one else could give, and that appeals to him more than the taste of his own adrenaline-poisoned blood in the wake of a conflict. As soon as the thought enters his mind he dials up the light on the lantern, turning around, checking to make sure it does not disturb her. She does not move and he palms each part, scratches grime away where it is necessary and rips out guts where there is no hope of salvaging them.

He searches junk piles with as much caution and silence as he does everything else, turning eyes to make sure she is still blissfully unconscious. When he makes a racket he falls still, only continuing when he can hear her steady breathing. Continuing this way for hours he amasses a pile of spare parts, some almost useless and others in surprisingly good condition.

When he's dismantled the motorcycle of all grime and damaged goods, he's gone through a pack of cigarettes, his breathing wheezing heavily by the time he's replacing the first nut around a new gasket. It goes slow, and some parts he sets aside, needs to set them in with heat. Something he won't do, knowing it will wake her.

The last thing he does is flip on the switch for the nuclear battery - the lights don't work, but it hums and grow warm in time. Satisfied he shuts it off and spit into a rag, wiping it down until it shines in the places it still can. As he stares his stomach grows tight; curling and full of mounting heat. It is a feeling he recognizes, knows, but will not give it any true acknowledgment. Instead he drags himself up and assumes his position on the cinder blocks, kicking the charred remains of bone and wood that has been long dead before he threw them to the flames.

He stays watch the rest of the night, until the pink and purple blend of dawn rapes the wasteland, exposing the decay that the darkness concealed. If she had awoken he would have ignored any protests at taking over the watch anyways, and though he has slept less than her this week between Megaton and Rivet City, she is not built like he is. This is what he was made for - to watch, to kill, to protect and never tire. And now, he thinks, it's to give her things he's not obligated to give.

Quiet noises catch his attention and he watches her before she, herself, even registers she is waking. Sleep is heavy under her eyes, but they open and stare over at him, smiling even though her lips don't.

Her brow arches after she does, arms above her head and fingers in the sand, a question in her eyes. He gives her a short shake of his head - no, there were no issues in the night, and she smiles with relief. He doubts she could have slept through gunfire or grunts of physical violence on his part, despite how exhausted she was.

"We'd be at the boat in a day if I could fix that thing," she's talking to him, picking up the same train of thought as before her sleep. She offers him a regretful smile before rolling on her side, tucking both hands under her head, looking too young, "Then again we'd be there now if I hadn't insisted we see The Dog, that was a grandiose mistake on my fucking part."

He wasn't going to think about the disk jockey today, or ever if he had his way.

Her gaze burned on the side of his face, waiting for him to voice his opinion, knowing he has one, because she knows him too well after all they've done. He won't say what she expects him to. This time he'll keep his mouth shut.

After minutes the burn leaves him and he dares a look to find she's made her way back to the machine, palming the dull edges that to her must look new and polished. He sits, holding his breath as she see with her hands.

Quick as a viper she turns to look at him, her cheeks ruddy and eyes shining - it is a terrible reaction he tells himself. A simple smile and maybe a laugh was his hope, now her lip is trembling and her eyes are starting to leak. Something is wrong with her and it is his fault.

"Charon…" it seems she means to say more but she chokes on it and looks down. Without warning he's leaning back as she's falling against him, arms tight and uncomfortable around his neck, her cheek on the skinless portion of his neck. Tears wet the muscles and he feels his blood pounding, knows she can feel the thin tree of exposed veins pulsing against her face and is embarrassed because of it.

Sparks race inside the marrow in his fingertips. They itch to touch but he doesn't risk it, just remains still as she gives him a tight squeeze, pushing against him so close that her body heat tumbles through layers of leather and warms his hide.

"You fucking liar," she laughs and sobs, " 'I don't know anything' he say."

He didn't say the words, but it is then he realizes, to her, it is like he speaks. Why her sudden, casual parrot of his rough tone makes him finally realize this he doesn't question.

He has never needed to speak for her to understand. She knows from the way his eyes gleam, his mouth frowns or how his body reacts. The subtle cues he gives but doesn't realize, she understands them.

Though it goes against his programming he puts his large hands on her back, part of his fingers touching soft, bare skin. He has no real defense against the desire. It is hard to stop when you don't know how, which could be why he grabs the back of her head, pulls her from his neck and put his mouth - lips, tongue and teeth - under her jaw, kisses down the front of her throat to suck the flesh that attaches collar and neck. Salt explodes on his tongue and he growls, needs more.

Suddenly she in like a rock under his touch, and he stops mid bite. Fear, panic, pain at forcing such unwanted attention on an employer fills his every nerve. It is not even that which sets him on edge. She does not instill the same feeling others have - she never has. Even his phantom lust means nothing compared to his true desire to be by her side, fight her battles alongside her.

He has made a mistake touching her and it hurts.

"So…" she starts, her words so small he barely hears her, "guess I'm pretty awesome if I get courted with motorcycles, that is...assuming it has anything to do with this...current situation."

He doesn't understand, but she looks down between them, to his groin and shifts her hips against an erection he's been too faded to realize. When he meets her eyes, ashamed of himself, she's wagging her eyebrows. It is endearing on her, even if it makes her look ridiculous in the same moment. In the end he's more relieved she is not disgusted by his state to comment on her silly behavior. He is even less able to think of a one-word retort when she leans forward, plucks at his lips with her own and he feels, unmistakably, the teasing grin on her mouth.

It isn't until they both are sitting around the motorcycle, him holding parts in place and her blasting the metal with short laser bursts, fusing the materials into one that he feels a sense of ease. She jokes with him shyly about why it had taken him so long to cave in under her womanly charms, about why he never mentioned how her lack of dress effected him or voice his thoughts in any way. He gives her a look over the sparks and heat and she nods, understanding.

When noon approaches she's loose and limber, kisses his jaw on her tiptoes and seems happy.

She grins so wide when she flips the switch and it howls to life, vibrating her body in a way that makes him stare for far too long. He grabs her waist even though there is no need, and helps her straddle the seat properly. A low sound escapes her throat as she churns the throttle, making it sputter to life despite all odds. The sight almost makes him smile, but he forces the corners of his mouth down out of habit. When she stares back at him and leans forward, cooing 'vroom vroom', he can't help it.

He smiles and she laughs loud and easy.

They make it to Rivet City in three hours, beating the night.


	4. A Moment

**A Moment**

When she'd first found out, he'd had to sit by with a straight face as she told the slick-haired, pretty boy. He had to listen to her mutter up what had happened. Had to watch the woman he'd come to respect, admire and eventually love tell her teenage crush and later drunken lover that she carried his child. And the boy never said a word, just finished the warm beer in his hand, put a few caps on the counter and left with a strangely absent look on his face. From what she'd mentioned of him, it seemed even more ironic now that he was doing as his own father must have done to his mother. To her credit, it seemed she hadn't thought he'd react any better.

As he sat with her in 'their' room in Underworld, months after they'd left Rivet City that day, he found himself with his hands on her growing belly - a look of comfortable embarrassment on her face. She smiled shyly, with her own soft hand cupped on the back of his as he felt the little life inside her kick gently through her, against his palm.

"I thought it would feel strange...when it started moving," he listened to her whisper, feeling both her fingers rub with affection against the ruined part of his hand as the child inside her tumbled, "but it's sort of nice."

They had been through too much violence, and her too much sadness for him to ever have imagined her content as a mother, but the past few weeks he'd seen her hard edges soften gradually. She had always been rough, quick to fumbling rage and uncertain around people, but the better parts of her - the kind words, the need to help and better those that deserved it - they were all fleshing out by the day. He tried to ignore the effect it all had on her outward appearance, but the clothes she owned did not hide the change well.

When the baby stopped kicking it was just his hand pressed to her body by her own hand, and those fingers, now soft from the months inside, rubbing against his wrist.

"I was thinking this morning," she started but paused, leaning back but pulling his trapped hand with her. He looked up, "that I'd have liked this to be your child, not Butch's. Not anyone elses."

His throat grew dry as she spoke - the words ringing like a fast breeze as they settled in, deeper than he'd have liked. She'd always been his picture of innocence, no matter how many people he watched her kill or the sometimes harsh words that left her mouth. That night he couldn't find her, and that morning that he'd figured it out, hadn't even pulled an inch at the pedestal he had her on. The second an unclean thought crossed his mind he pushed it aside, but right now he thought of being the one that'd eased inside her, spilled himself as she whined as sweetly as he knew she would. Her eyes stared him down as he looked past her, through her, to the fantasy.

"If that made you uncomfortable, I'm sor-"

"Don't be," he blurted with a deep tenor; fingers curling into the tight fabric around her stomach.

A gentle tilt gave her lips a smile, even if it was an uneasy one. Suddenly her eyes dropped down to his hand and her own above it. Hesitantly, he watched and felt her take his wrist in hand, dragging his palm - uneven ridges and all - up her stomach, over the still harsh start of her ribs and settle it on a soft breast. The nipple was hard between his two fingers and a heat crept from her flesh through his arm, filling each vein with supple warmth.

"Maybe," she said, swallowing hard enough that he heard it in her throat, "maybe I can pretend? That it's yours. That is...if you wanted."

She was never an easy employer, if that's what he could ever call her again, but with her stomach full, his hand held against her breast, and her words asking him such things - a part of him couldn't help but look back at the old days where it was hate that kept him going with a sense of nostalgia. The emotions he had now were too muddled to know which was which. Was it the love that outweighed the insecurity? - or the lust that slapped away the reasonable answer. It'd been so long of just standing by; watching and wishing. It figured that she would offer herself when she was like this - lonely, in need and maybe a bit unsure of what she even wanted. He felt like the last resort.

With determination, and regret, he pulled his hand away. A cold settled in his palm and that sweet heat drained out of his arm.

"No. It's not."

He stood up, straightening his legs and his shoulders, willing himself to not fall back into her as her hopeful smile fell into a hopeless line. Those brown eyes, so deep and sad, burned into him while he walked out the door. There would be no running from her, but maybe for a bit he could leave her alone and when he returned it could be as it was, before she let this happen, before he loved her.

"Charon..." it was the last thing he heard her whimper before the door latched closed.

It took him two days to talk back when she spoke with him. Two weeks to accept her offer of sharing the bed, and another four days of those nights before he let himself lay his arm around her while she slept. The closeness was warm and comforting, but the resentment still lingered heavy in his chest.

One day in Tulips shop a male smoothskin had come in, trading and haughty...though pleasant enough. There had been an air about him that suggested he thought himself better than them, but when she followed him in - hand on her growing belly and eyes bright - that man saddled up to her.

It was almost funny how others hitting on her had never rubbed him as wrong as when that man offered to protect her; to take her away from Underworld...from the ghouls, where she could have her baby in peace. The moment the offer was out Charon had truly seen red - it was like a subtle crawl of blood around his vision that clouded his sight so quickly he could barely breath.

Needless to say she wasn't happy about the blood on the only dress that seemed to fit her anymore, but that was the least of her concerns.

With a rough hand around her arm he dragged her back to the room - her feet scuffing on the floor in meager defiance the whole way. Everyone looked at them, but he didn't care anymore.

When the door shut the red dimmed, but he still pushed her back on the bed too roughly for her condition. The sound she made was strange, like a moan and a hiccup, but it didn't make him pause a second, crawling over her like an animal. He kissed her first, but it was her that pressed back with hands grasping at the back of his neck. The regret, the pain, the jealousy - it all poured into her mouth as he growled and kissed without care. A part of him feared this was a way he could punish her, as if fucking her - rather than making love to her like he'd wanted - would be better than giving her everything she wanted...though that would be being both selfish and selfless in his revenge.

In the end the wetness on her cheeks when she nuzzled into his neck decided his next action. The tears made him gentle and her soft little sounds replaced the anger in his heart with, what he could only assume, was love. She didn't even seem to mind that his hands were still bloody, or that some streaks covered her thighs when he pulled them open. The soft brush of her belly against his own stomach when he thrust inside, so deep and so heated, made him stutter. That jealousy he'd normally feel at noticing it never came.

Around him, her arms hugged and on his chest she kissed while sighing with each movement. She was tight around him, as if she'd been the virgin he'd assumed she was before all this, but there was no pain on her face, only a slightly parted smile and heavy, satisfied breaths. When he grinded inside, going deep, she gasped; moaning loudly as he withdrew.

It was just as he'd thought it'd be - as rough as she was at times, yet as soft and sweet as she tried to be. Everything was all at once too hot and not hot enough. The ruined skin he had left tingled like the sun was on him - his muscles strained and that deep pull below grew taut as her lips ran the length of his sharp jaw, whispering, "I love you."

A pitiful, strangled sound raced from his throat, past his clenched teeth and right into her throat. He came as she shuddered around him, sighing and crooning his name with more pleasure than he thought anyone could vocalize. Sweet, wet heat surrounded him; from her arms and thighs to her cunt. She was all around him.

In the aftermath, while his chest heaved and his arms shook, holding himself above her, she traced the sides of his ragged cheeks, kissing his chin. He looked dead ahead, not seeing anything as his ears cleared and slowly he began hearing her repeating those three words.

When she pulled back to stare into his eyes with her shiny, wet orbs, she smiled even though he must have looked horrified at her confession.

"If you don't feel the same...don't tell me. I want to pretend for a while." - and then she pulled him beside her, wrapping herself around him as best she could while her belly fit between the crevasse of his curved body. He stayed silent as she'd asked, even though a part of him wanted to tell her she was stupid for thinking he didn't feel the same - that he hadn't loved her for much longer than she'd loved him, if she truly did that is.

It would take more than her repeating the words for him to believe them...but for now, this was more than he could have asked for. She was with him after all, not the father of her child. That had to mean something? Didn't it?

"I love you..."

'And I love you...' he thought, as the sleep covered him, just as she did...so warm and soft, and right.


	5. Fog

_A/N - Glad a few of your are enjoying these. I've been sitting on them awhile so updates will come often. _

**Fog**

The walls were pristine. The floor clean. The smells - the smells were strong, but they carried none of the death, dirt and filth he'd found not just normal, but comforting. In this cleanliness he saw her, down a line of people he knew, or had known. She was in the same clothes she'd been in the last time he saw her. The ragged shorts - the bloody tank top that had once been yellow. A hole was black between her breasts where the bullet had struck her. She was dead - had been for years, but she was here now.

They caught eyes across the room and she smiled wide at him. That unchained excitement held back only because he knew she had to wait a little bit longer for him. His own mother was there, old and grey but smiling. She kissed his cheek, told him she loved him and of her many regrets. He could not picture her face, ever, and so she had none. Her vague blur of a face still filled him with a sense of calm.

The few good people he'd known aside from her came to him, shook his hand - a general in the war whom he'd served under for years - a short, rotund woman that'd held his contract just after the bombs had fallen and Quinn. The ghoul hugged him, gave him a grin of white teeth and a stare with green eyes. He looked nothing like Charon himself had known of him, but he knew it was him all the same.

For the first time he looked at his hands. Tan, whole-flesh poked through his gloves and for a moment he shut his eyes and savored that she would see him as he'd been, as he'd always wanted to be for her.

But why was she wounded? He locked eyes with others he knew, but they did not approuch him, only smiled. The dog was with her, and her hand was resting on it's head as she looked up at him - that smile mischievous, like she wanted to ruin a joke for him. No pain etched on her face, but the blood on her shirt still looked fresh.

"Lydia..."

Her smile split into a grin.

"Why are you...why..."

"We see things differently when we first get here. Its all part of it. You look nice...I think I liked you better before though."

He frowned. It would be just like her to say that, and just then it didn't feel like he'd spent the last four years walking the wastes just to die. His own death was fading from memory, and with it the red faded from her shirt - the bullet hole shrinking until it too was gone.

"Do I look better now?" she asked, still smiling.

"Do I?"

She laughed softly, "The Charon you came in as isn't the Charon I fell in love with, I like you better my way."

He couldn't help but smirk as she curled up to him, hip cocked to the side and arms behind her back - playing coy. She was always terrible at that.

"I'm not dreaming am I?"

"Sure you are." - her admission made his blood turn cold, "It'll never end though. We're dead. All the dead do is dream."

"I've never dreamt before," he admitted, lifting a hand to her cheek. She pressed her face into his palm, eyes half closed and her smile relieved.

"You'll enjoy it. I'll make sure of that."


	6. A Birth

**A Birth: Sequel to A Moment**

It happened in the early morning after a fitful night.

He was asleep for no less than an hour, draped over her thighs with one hand curved under the heavy swell of her belly when she started to kick her legs. Sleep drained out of his limbs the moment she groaned, and it left his head when the soft skin under his palm grew slick with sweat. She was gasping by the time he'd turned on the dim, wavering light beside the bed. Under the red glow of light he could see her eyes fluttering as her hands grasped at her stomach, starting to curl into herself. How was it that he knew just then what was happening? She had been tossing and turning all night. He could have assumed it was just another one of those pains, but he didn't.

Was it ingrained in his DNA? Something they couldn't condition out of him?

He didn't have time to ponder it, just that he knew what his next steps were.

During the months he'd been stroking her stomach, holding her at night and speaking soft to her as she grew more nervous, they had talked about what would happen when the time came. She'd given him instructions...or one instruction to be more precise.

He'd get Barrows.

The problem was he hated the man. If he'd ever delivered a baby, it was too long ago and his care wouldn't be on her or the baby, just what he could gain from her. If it wasn't requests to study her pregnancy under radiation, then it was skin biopsies or irradiated blood transfusions. Now that it was time to fetch the self proclaimed doctor, he hesitated.

Charon felt his teeth clench until his jaw ached. She was gasping, calling his name, telling him to get moving, that she was scared and couldn't move. He left immediately when 'please' left her lips, tainted with terror. He'd never before seen her so scared.

He made it to the Chop Shop in seconds.

"It's happening," he growled. His voice half between a yell and a warning. Barrows was at his desk, gnarled hands on his keyboard, still typing away as Charon stood - of no importance to the doctor it seemed - while ghouls poked their heads out of doorways to see the cause of the commotion. Tulip crept into the hallway and asked in a nervous voice if it was happening. He ignored her, slamming the door as he descended upon Barrows. He was suppose to be nicer to Tulip, she's told him, but it was the furthest thing from his mind now.

Charon was one step away from grabbing the other ghouls neck, dragging him if need be with him, but the ghoul swiveled in his chair, adjusted his glasses and grimaced. There wasn't an ounce of fear in his expression, he knew he had all the power, and it pissed Charon off more than anything had before.

"I trust she agreed to my fee." It wasn't a question and in any other situation Charon would have acted as he desired, namely throwing him into the walls until something irreparable in him cracked, but now wasn't the time. He knew less about delivering a child than Barrows did...and Graves, even though she was already gathering supplies in the corner, she wasn't a real nurse. She would have been of no help if he'd killed the doctor.

So instead of beating Barrows' brains into the crannies of his keyboard, Charon nodded.

While Barrows and Graves gather supplies, Charon stands with his arms out, the weight of blankets, bottles of water, instruments he winced at and a rusted bucket growing heavy. He snaps when Graves tries to reassure him and does the same to any of the ghouls they pass from the Chop Shop to their room.

Once inside. he smells something tangy. A dark stain has formed between her legs and for a moment he thinks she's lost her bladder until Barrows grumbles beside him, walking past with a dark look, "Her water's already broke you imbecile."

Charon looks over her, seeing her chest rise and fall and her legs twitch. Sweat beads all over her and it makes him feel sick that she's already in so much pain...that it could even cause so much unnerves him. She's taken bullet wounds better than this.

He doesn't move while Barrows flings the sheets off her feet, barking orders that she seems to follow immediately, scooting herself fully on her back with her knees bent up and spread. A part of Charon needs to move forward, cover her back up, but he doesn't, just stares at the pile of supplies in shame. This isn't a time where his jealousy is appropriate, if it ever was.

Graves is pulling items off the pile in his arms, a motion he doesn't feel. He doesn't dare move an inch.

It's like this for hours. He stands still, away from the bed, only, after awhile he feels the wall at his back and realizes he's been steadily taking steps backwards, as if in fear. Which he is, he realizes.

Some ghouls hover around the closed door. He hears them shuffling and speaking amongst themselves until he slams a fist against the wood and they scramble away. His act of violence doesn't garner a single look as she's gasping and grunting.

Her skin has gone alabaster white, except for the deep red in her cheeks and nose. It doesn't look natural even though he's gotten used to her increasingly pale skin over the months cooped up inside. He'll see more red on her soon, he knows. No one has spared him the horror stories of child birth. Even Carol has told him how one of her own daughters died in childbirth. That was with drugs, surgeons, antiseptics and most of all knowledge. They have none of these things...just painkillers and vodka. None of which she accepts in this moment either.

She snarled at him when he mentioned something to take away the pain. Now he keeps quiet and out of the way.

Something from her sloshes into a bucket at the base of the bed and he swallows bile, unwilling to look to see if it's the blood that he fears.

He thinks, more than once, that he should flee. Walk out the door and down some whiskey at Carols while she wails and pushes, but he doesn't move...except to push himself further against the wall.

She cries for hours more while Barrows yells at her to push - to stop being lazy and push. And it isn't until Barrows brandishes a scalpel that she slurs terrified nonsense and does whatever the doctor says. Screams pierce his ears until his fingers reach for the doorknob, but another cry forces his hand to still. It's cracked and loud, but not hers.

Blood, he sees it as he expected, but it's not covering her as much as it is a tiny wiggling arm; a kicking foot. He knows he's felt those little kicks from all the times she's taken his palm to push where small limbs poke inside, trying to get out.

"A girl," Barrows says with no real warmth, not that Charon would have expected any less.

When he moved to lay the shiny baby against the crook of her sweaty arm, Charon catches a glimpse of something that makes him want to vomit. It's something Barrows is extremely pleased to wrap in the last fresh linen for himself. With a sour stomach Charon watches Grave's take some scissors to a flesh covered vein at the babies belly. Instinctually Charon marches forward, growling at Graves. She back away, taking the severed, disgusting rope with her.

He doesn't even hear them leave, just hears the first aid kit flop on the bed at her feet while he busies himself with kneeling by her side, smoothing a heavy hand down her shoulder.

Her eyes are barely open, but they're looking at the baby. It squawks almost soundlessly; mouth gasping new air into it's lungs. He can't look away from it, not even when she whispers.

"Charon," at his name on her lips he peels his eyes off the child. He looks at her damp face, a smile is forming on her lips and he can't help but return it, though he feels foolish for doing so. The color has returned to her face and naked limbs, but that high red on her cheeks still flames. It doesn't worry him as much as it did before.

"What do you need?" he asks, unable to sound any softer for her, even now.

"Drink...something for the pain too."

He does as commanded. Taking solace in an order, he opens a bottle of water, gives her two small sips before she grasps it from his hands, guzzling it down with a wobbling arm. While she drink he readies a needle of medx, squeezing the meat of her thigh before easing a dose inside the muscle. She give him a gentle sigh, only to suck in a sharp breath as the drugs flush into her system.

"Better?" he asks.

She make a pleased sound, curling on her side, cradling the baby as it sleeps. When she too is under, he kneels to the bed, wetting a ratty cloth with clean water. With a gentle hand, a soft touch he didn't know he possessed, he wipes at the sticky sheen of fluids drying on the little girl's forehead. She doesn't awaken as he cleans her. Then, when the baby is fresh looking, he looks over at it's mother and cleans her too.

She wakes as he's dragging the wet cloth down between her breasts. A silly grin lifts at her mouth, "You wouldn't be doing anything unsavory would you?"

He must wear a laughable look on his face, for she chuckles slowly, shifting to stare down at her little girl, nestled in one arm. Under her breath she whispers, "Need a bit of time before we can try for a second."

Where he would have normally been annoyed at her words, he feels...eager, lust, happiness - a number of emotions, and they all leave him wanting to hold her; hold both of them. So with a slow, careful motion, he crawls into the bed with her, voicing gruff apologies when she falls back into him as he indents the mattress. She only whimpers a moment before shifting sluggishly into him, a finger tracing the babies chubby cheek.

He looks over her shoulder, wishing - not for the first time - that he could have given her this. Instead it was Butch that blessed her with it, but it's one thing he feels he could respect the dumb man for. In the end it was no more Butch's child than Barrows. It was theirs, as she's told him many times.

"Our little girl, who would have thought," she whispers warmly.

Now, he couldn't deny it.


	7. Humongous

**Humongous**

"Don't act so innocent, baby. You're not underground anymore..."

Nova was never one for sheltered conversation. While Gob served Charon at the bar - the two talking almost amicably for once - she had decided, for some reason, to ask how the two of them were faring with the bar now that Moriarty was gone. What that question meant to the former whore, apparently suggested she wanted to know about her and Gob's...intimate life.

"That," she stuttered, almost blushing, "That doesn't matter...I was only curi-"

"Myyy, myy...if I had known he was so thorough I would have made time for him sooner. It isn't like some John's didn't get me riled up for their own enjoyment, but Gob," a grin broke out on Nova's face - one that made her own lips quirk up on instinct, "he'd surprise you."

"Soo, you two are happy then?"

Nova shrugged, that smirk dimming, "As happy as you can be I suppose. Sometimes I think it's just because Moriarty isn't around any more, but then I think it's just Gob. He's a sweetheart, but he isn't the hero I'd imagined."

"Yeah..."

Those big eyes, rimmed with soot-eyeliner looked over at her. That devious little smirk returned on her lips - it made her nervous. The question had been coming for awhile, and now she was going to have to answer it.

"So. You and the big one?"

She looked over at Charon out the corner of her eye. He was leaning over the bar, one elbow on the counter and the other bent; hand holding onto a tall glass of dark alcohol. One leg was crossed casually over the other, and though he looked as relaxed as he ever did, she knew different. Standing even before Gob he was over a foot taller than him. In all honestly she didn't know what to say to Nova about him. They'd been through thick and thin for going on near a year and it'd taken this long to get him comfortable enough to have a drink.

"It's not what you think...of that I'm certain," she struggled to say with a straight face; eyes still on him grumbling with Gob at the bar. No one else was around this early in the morning, but it felt wrong to be talking about the two ghouls within hearing distance.

"Sure it's not." The words were laced with sarcasm, and without thinking she took the bait.

With eyes cast down she confessed, "I saw him...relieving himself a couple days ago..."

To Nova's credit she didn't seem at all surprised, almost bored. "And?"

"And I've only seen one other man's...manhood, and-"

Suddenly, Nova laughed - not any quiet chuckle, but a laugh that rang deafeningly through the bar. Her cheeks flared red as Gob and Charon paused in their half argument to stare at the two of them at the table. Gob looked confused, but Charon's face stayed that same annoyed stoicism as it'd always been. It seemed like at least a full minute passed before the laughter turned into a chuckle and ended on an amused sigh, leaving her sitting at the table - both hands around her beer - looking mortified no doubt.

Thankfully, when Nova spoke, it was almost a whisper, "I've never heard anyone call a cock a 'manhood'. They call it that in that vault of yours?!"

"It's what my Dad called it when he explained...intercourse to me."

Another heavy, smokey chuckle, "Well," Nova muttered with amusement, "you should refer to it as either a cock or a dick. Talk like that will make people think you're virginal."

A long moment of silence followed, and slowly the heat evaporated from her cheeks. It was better to not mention anything about being 'virginal' to Nova, less she get laughed at again. The beer was dry by the time Nova leaned in again.

"So what did it look like?"

"It...was..." she paused, looking over at Gob and Charon. Gob was talking with what looked like enthusiasm while Charon...fuck, he was looking right at her, "it..."

The stare he set her with was hard, like he knew she was talking about him, but...that wasn't possible. His hearing if anything wasn't as good as hers. He couldn't have heard anything. She hoped he hadn't heard anything.

"Was it big? Small? - rotten?"

"I...like I said, I've only seen one other before..."

"Was it longer than you hand?"

Her eyes shifted to her hand, releasing the beer and setting all her fingers straight. The memory of it all was a bit foggy, especially since she'd felt as guilty as she did nervous for peeping in on him. Curiosity was and probably always would be her weakness.

"I guess so...maybe a bit bigger..."

"How much bigger?"

"I dunno...I guess from the wrist up? He was...holding most of it in his hand."

"Shit...so tall, dark and rotting is that big with a softy. Figures..." Nova muttered, not bothering to keep her stare off Charon as she drained her own beer. Her lashes were lowered, and something about the look was annoying.

"Is that," she paused, hoping the redhead wouldn't look too deeply into the question, "is that too big? I mean...would it hurt? If I...you know. I mean! - if anyone did...you know"

"Probably."

She frowned. That was upsetting. There was already too much pain in everyday life now, adding more to it just for something like sex didn't seem worth it. Besides, she'd gotten by just fine without it.

Nova took her eyes off Charon, giving her an assessing look before speaking, "It's been more than awhile since I've had a painful dick, but you get used to it after a few times. Trust me."

As much as her words should have reassured her, they didn't, but the curiosity hadn't dried up yet. Then again, there wasn't much point in thinking too hard on it - Charon wasn't just under contract, he'd also never shown any interest in her, not in a sexual way at least. Lately their conversations had become more friendly; more intimate, but nothing that would make her feel confident in propositioning him. She wouldn't even know a way to go about it.

"I'd fuck him if I were you. A ghoul's stamina is also something to admire...if he's anything like Gob, they know a good thing when they see one. Plus, you could always die tomorrow. Wouldn't want your last thought to be 'why didn't I fuck that?'."

She held tight on her half empty beer, looking Nova in the eye.

Nova continued, "Gob's not even squishy, sort of rough. I'll admit it took me awhile to ignore a few things - the smell for one, but now it's not so bad."

Charon, as far as she'd noticed didn't have that smell everyone had told her about. Gob smelt a little sour sometimes, but she'd adjusted to the constant smell of body odor quickly enough from living in Megaton those first few months. When she'd met Charon all she'd noticed was the musky smell of leather and, what she could only assume, was the fumes of testosterone. If he'd any pores left she was certain they'd sweat the stuff.

"Was there anything else that bothered you?" she asked in a low hushed voice, finally seeing Charon's looks fall away as he drank from a fresh glass Gob had sat down. It seemed safe to speak when he started talking to the other ghoul.

"No. Only the rash from the grinding sometimes, but it's not a problem if he keeps his pants on."

"What?!" she blurted, feeling Charon's gaze on her again.

"I told you they're rough, and he goes for a while longer than most men..."

After that the conversation trailed off into comfortable silence, or at least for Nova. Her own thoughts were a whirlwind of contradicting scenarios that left her cheeks pink, but blaming it on the three added beers was a good excuse. On her fifth beer Gob and Charon sat down with them, making her hide within the lip of her bottle as Nova gave her a knowing glance.

Charon only gave her a few sideways looks before sitting in silence, drinking at a rate that would have made her puke. She could smell that leather smell when he shifted, pouring another heavy glass. What with the alcohol and the smell, and the previous conversation, she felt suddenly very obvious. Even though Nova was chatting with Gob - her voice huskier than usual and her tone suggestive - she felt like everyone knew what was on her mind.

"We have an hour before we open...you think that would be long enough for you, Gobby?"

"To clean upstairs? Yea. I'll get the supplies," Gob rumbled. She'd never heard him use that tone, and it was obvious it was code for...not cleaning.

"You two don't have to go if you're comfortable," Nova said with an easy smile, "but Gob's a noisy cleaner."

The awkwardness was suffocating, but Nova didn't seem bothered in the slightest, if anything she looked greatly amused by the look on her face. She didn't dare look to Charon, already knowing he'd have a sneer on his face. He wasn't dumb either. In fact, he'd been the first to point out their relationship when she herself had been completely oblivious. It seemed more humiliating now that it was practically confessed in front of the both of them that the two were off to have...intercourse.

"We'll...see you two later," she managed, forcing an oblivious smile...for Gobs sake.

When the both of them had reached the top of the stairs, Charon's voice spooked her. "Shall we go?" She turned to him, seeing the frustration clear on his face. He even looked angry. What had him and Gob been talking about that had put him in such a foul mood? That curiosity crept forward - forgetting about the previous conversation - "What were you and Gob talking about?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

She flushed involuntarily.

"What were you and the whore talking about, or whom were you talking of?"

"She's not a whore anymore, Charon."

"You're avoiding the question."

Assuming a mask of annoyance she scoffed, looking away, "Am not."

She heard him grunt, that noise he made when he cared not about the current question or situation. It essentially meant she was in the clear, so she relaxed, letting out a long sigh through her nose. One last swig and her fifth beer was empty. She stood unsteadily. He stood as easy as ever and they left.

Only a few weeks later, when they were standing on the Duchess Gambit, ferrying their way to Maryland did he mention what Gob had said that morning. Tobar - the poor son-of-a-bitch - was a few miles back, dead in the water through no fault of his own. A misplaced hand on her rump had gotten quite the reaction out of a studious bodyguard, and over the boat he'd gone...after a nasty stab wound of course. She'd long since forgotten she was suppose to be mad at him for the overreaction, which maybe was why he mentioned it now. Satiating her curiosity always erased everything else from her bank of worries, at least for that moment, and he knew well enough now, as she did him, how to calm her down.

"He told me how I should feel lucky you chose me to accompany you on your journey."

She arched a brow, mainly to lighten the tension suddenly brewing. Charon was always serious, but sometimes it made her uncomfortable when his voice got too low. There was no one to hear them out here. No one to hear but the two of them and the soft crash of water hitting the boat. It made his hoarse voice settle deep in her chest.

"I said he should mind his own business, but he was right," he lowered those faded eyes her way and tried at a smile, it would have made her laugh if she wasn't on her toes with anticipation, waiting for the rest of his words. "For awhile I thought you were the lucky one to find me. I was mistaken."

A taint of red flooded her cheeks and nose, she could feel it, and he obviously noticed even in the fog sweeping in from the water. She felt her lips quirk into a smile; a nervous, shy smile.

"Charon..." she started quietly, seeing him cock his head to the side - the movement exposing a speck of Tobar's blood on his collar, "Since we're making confessions, or whatever they are...I...sort of spied on you awhile ago."

He looked curious, how funny. But she imagined he wouldn't look that way for long. Was it too late to confess to something else? - something made up maybe, that wasn't as bad as...seeing his...cock?

"I ugh...I..." His unrelenting stare, so expecting and hard made her almost balk, "I saw you..."

She grasped the railing to her side and looked aimlessly into the water as her cheeks started to burn. "I followed you when you-"

"I know."

For a moment she was stunned into open-mouthed silence, then her heart raced and her lips quivered, "What?! Ho-"

"I heard you talking with the whore. I'm not deaf."

She knew she looked as shocked as a brahmin right now, "...good gravy..."

This time his brow arched at her, another one of his rare facial expressions - this one telling her she'd said another thing that seemed at home only in the vault. Still, she felt well and truly mortified now. Even if he didn't seem all that offended, maybe even a bit...was that a smirk on his face. She pressed her lips together and peered up at him. "What are you smiling about?"

His lips quirked higher, "You think it's too big, smoothskin?"

For a moment her breathing stuttered and a garble of nonsense left her mouth. Thankfully she recalled her ability to speak before it got too embarrassing, "How am I suppose to know?! I've only seen one! - well...two I guess..."

He snorted through his open nostrils, shrugging one shoulder in a show of his indifference, but for once she could see through it. This mask wasn't as good as all the others had been. Maybe seeing through it was what emboldened her to say her next words, even if they were muted and shaken, "Guess there's only one way to find out."

"I guess you're right."


	8. Exposure

**Exposure**

Sometime after she's finally caught her breath, standing in the doorway to the kitchen as the water boils on the hot plate, does she finally look over at him. The blood has started to dry up under her fingernails, but where the red had eased into the wrinkles of her palm she can still feel it tacky and slick.

The living room is a disaster she surmises with an erratic heartbeat, finding it almost funny that she would care about the upturned couch and junk stuffed into the corner now of all times.

He's bled all over the linens she's laid down under him, but that hardly matters.

He looks dead. Though his eyes blink like he's trying to peer through water and his breath rolls out on a rumble like thunder, she still has to remind herself he's alive and will live. He is only hurt, she says under her breath. Nervously she hums, more for herself than him as she wraps a rag around the handle of the pot, walking with it to the patch of bare floor she's prepared. In poorly assembled piles are ripped linens, yellowed gauze and a kitchen sponge. Needles, tubing, scissors, a scalpel and tweezers fill a metal pan and a closed first aid kit, with an array of collected drugs inside, ready for use. She is prepared, she knows and it is not the first time she's played doctor to someone. But this is Charon, and she is more than apprehensive when she kneels beside his still form and sees the blood still wet over him.

He is large, and only partly conscious. Getting him from the gates, where his knees had finally gone out from under him, all the way to her home with only Simms to help her was as trying as any of her greatest feats. Her fingers still throb and arms ache as she swallows, reminding herself to breath deep before she loses the calm that's holding on by a taut string. She will have to face Megaton tomorrow, explain why she brought a battered, seven-foot ghoul into their community.

Eyes, glazed over with too many Med-X injections, stare over at her. His eyes. They slide in his sockets and she feels sick as she grasps at the scissors, nicking her own finger on the scalpel in the process. She spares a moment to stare at the well of blood oozing from her fingertip before looking down at him.

"It'll be alright, Charon, just let me know if it hurts too much," she whispers it, feeling a sense that if she speaks too loudly he may…

No, she shakes her head and stares down at his battered body.

She wipes the blood off her finger, but the sting wakes her up, steadying her as she slides one end of the scissors under the torn leather on his thigh. It's soaked with blood and smells ripe of wet, rusted metal; a smell that's so thick she can taste it on the back of her tongue. The leather is tough but it sheers, and falling into a blank slate of emotion she peels the layers back until the upper half of his thigh and hip bone are exposed. Dried blood pulls with the movement and a fresh supply leaks sluggishly. The more she looks at him the more she notices. Another bullet wound has sliced the leather at his calf and the meat around one ankle is swollen, so she takes unsteady scissors to bare his whole lower half

After she's peeled his pants off she unlaces his boots. They're so full of blood they slosh when she tosses them aside. Again she tells herself, he is a big man and therefore he has a lot of blood. Do not panic.

Out the side of her eyes she glimpses his bare groin, shame shucks heat into her face as she fumbles for a cloth to toss over his crotch. When she meets his eyes he is staring at her and it's easier to say she only hallucinates the tilt of his mouth than think he could actually be smirking. It is something she tries to ignore as he blinks and breaths under her.

Continuing her cut and peel with the scissors she feels a rhythm build by the time she's pulled his arm from the last shred of clothing. The cleaning of blood and dirt with hot water first, then the vodka in their pack goes by efficiently. The hiss of his breath is low and his total nakedness only affects her when she pauses, so she doesn't and continues while he watches her in, what she hopes is, a numb high.

She sweats while plucking at shrapnel with tweezers, digging deep into the raw meat of his thigh while he breathes shallow and twitches. He has yet to say one word, and as the ping of bloody metal falls into a tarnished silver tray, she hopes above all else that he would say something, anything.

In the silence she can hear her own blood rushing in her ears, and her heart beating vibrantly.

She slides stimpaks between ribs as he growls, ripping apart the quiet at last. After that she finds that touching him more than necessary makes him more vocal, so she touches. She lingers after wrapping his bicep in linen and ancient gauze, feeling the texture of slick scar tissue and blood-softened skin. It isn't the first time she has felt him, but it is the first time she's been able to do it without him recoiling from her.

His eyes flutter closed while she grazes fingertips down past the crook of his arm, over a bulging muscle in his forearm. It jerks under her touch.

The fat, raw gash in his thigh takes six stitches before she eases a stimpack along the center of it, ensuring that it closes the honed muscle properly. He lets out a deep exhale and something in her belly quivers. It's an embarrassing reaction while her palms are flat on his hip. Something about it feels wrong...but she doesn't move like she ought to when he rolls his head over to her, eyes cracking open.

"What are you doing?" His heavy rasp is even more jagged than normal and the question he poses - almost accusingly - forces her mouth to open and close with no real answer. It almost shocks her how he can be the one so calm while he's lying, mostly naked, on the sheets while his blood dries on the both of them. It's even stranger given how rabid he'd gotten when she's reached out for him in the past. He seems adamant against any physical contact...even as innocent as her previous ones have been. Knowing the past and now, the present situation, she feel a sick need to push her boundaries with him. She doesn't, however.

Instead she pulls her hands away, grabbing a cloth to soak in the now cool water.

"I'm almost done. Don't worry," she mumbles, sounding very much like a child after his robust question.

She's slow cleaning the dirt and blood off him, lingering long after it's all gone. All the while he doesn't look away from her. His eyes narrow as much as his lips thin in a frown. No sound escapes him this time, and when she can't continue without her intentions being more obvious, she slinks away to give him privacy. But that's a lie, and once upstairs she kneels against the railing to peer down at him, watching him run a hand down his face before sitting up. He moves slow, either from pain or the lingering effects of the drugs she's given him. Normally he would have felt her eyes on him by now.

With a growl he fists the sheet over his groin and tosses it at the pile of bloody rags and empty syringes. Slowly her eyes grow wide, her hands wring around the rail posts and she sucks her lower lip into her mouth.

He's erect. but she'd known that already. Hadn't she?

Something, almost like an itch, grows between her thighs and she grips the rails harder, watching him from above.

For a moment he hunches over, obscuring her view before he leans back to grab at the ruin of his leather pants, grumbling something that sounds like a string of curses. Suddenly she feels guilty. She pulls herself from the railing to find him a spare pair of pants while making sure her thighs squeeze together with each step.

When she's found all she needs she pauses at the top of the stairs and announces she's coming down, only moving when she hears his grunt of acknowledgment.

She knows she's blushing, can feel her face growing hotter the more steps she leaves behind, until she's looking over at him and even her ears start burning. He didn't cover himself...and he's still hard, staring at her with a cloudy mix of venom and interest.

When he speaks she looks down at her bare feet, suddenly feeling mortified.

"This what you wanted to look at so badly? Not so nice is it?" He must be high still. With the stimpaks taking away most of the pain, he's left with an excess of endorphins from the drugs, she knows this and this is why he's being this way. Never before would she expect his stoicism to crumble for something like spite.

There has never been a moment in her life where she's felt so embarrassed - so chastised. It's all the more terrible that she feels this way because of someone she entertained taking advantage of a few minutes ago...or still does even now. He's not ugly like he thinks. But she reminds herself that she's known him only as he is now, and he remembers himself from before. It is obvious his self disgust keeps him from many things, but that it is meant to keep her away from him makes her shockingly angry. They have not been together for long, but she's realized that relationships form quickly when people face such trials like starvation and violence together. To know he keeps her at a distance is worst than his current reaction.

"If you mean to shock and disgust me you're doing a terrible job at it." It comes out half hearted but not shaken, and when he doesn't say anything back she lays the folded pants beside him and starts to gather up the used and unused supplies in silence. His eyes burn on her, but if this is a test, then she won't fail. Before she get's to her feet she gives him a reassuring smile and says, "You're welcome by the way."

She watches, with satisfaction, as his mouth parts in something like disbelief.

At the sink, after pouring the red-tinged water down the rusted drain, she freezes at hot breath on the back of her neck. He's behind her, she knows, but can't think of what to say or if to move. She does however see his large hands grip the sink rim on either side of her, blocking her in. A sound escapes her throat and any tranquility she had gathered drains immediately.

"You best be careful," he hisses at the back of her neck, "I might not be able to do anything to you without consent, but you remember Ahzrukhal. He needed killing, but you need something else."

She remembers. And he's right, it's not killing he wants to do to her, or that she needs. No. It's a good fucking. There was no need to voice it either.

He continues as she feels his body heat seep into her back, "I'm still a man. You keep playing this game and you better hope no one takes my contract from your hands."

In her mind she leans back into him, whispers that it's not a game and he has her consent. Imagines his heady growl while he bends her over the sink.

But she does nothing, either because she's a coward or she's not ready for that, she can't figure.

In the end he retreats from her, his threat lingering as she cleans up the mess. No doubt he's found the tiny room she mentioned before the ambush, since he's absent from the main room when she starts straightening everything up. She rights the couch, tossing bloody sheets into the sink and lets them soak with abraxo while she fingers all her souvenirs, putting them back in their respective places. It is calming, and with each thing she fixes right her pulse slows until it walks not runs.

It isn't until she's given the room a hasty cleaning that she makes her way up the stairs, passing by the spare bedroom, only to stop short at a muffled sound. She backtracks in a comical way that would have made her laugh if she wasn't straining her ears at the ajar door, listening. The disruption of his privacy doesn't even cross her mind now, not after today.

She hears heavy breathing; his to be precise. And a scratchy groan. She knows, without a doubt, what he's doing almost immediately. It's something she used to do to herself when she had time, but that was when she had a locked door in the vault and a semblance of safety. So, listening, she finds herself both parts envious and aroused while he pleasures himself behind the door.

A vivid image of him fucking into his own hands makes her whimper - the sounds beyond the door stop immediately. He heard.

She balks as sounds of the bed squeaking signals he's gotten up; he's heard her and he's coming towards the door. For some odd reason she doesn't move. So when he opens the door she's still standing there, beyond embarrassed with herself and is sure it shows on her face.

"In or out," he barks.

His demand doesn't register. It's just an angry snarl to her ears.

She must look stupid too him, because he looks away as if he's asking god why he made someone like her. His gaze returns, starting at the tips of her toes, following her length until he's staring right through her. Finally he speaks again, this time it's quiet, almost meant to placate her, "I'm not going to play this game, kid. Either come in or go to your room."

This time she doesn't imagine taking action. This time she walks forward with tiny steps, entering the room that smells like leather, blood and sweat. She begins to wonder how he could have stained the room with that scent already, but he's behind her, one large hand on the zipper of her suit. While he pulls it down she stops wondering about a lot of things.


End file.
